On a Cold, Wet Night
by Allie35
Summary: In June of 1980, Albus Dumbledore goes to tell the Potters and the Longbottoms of a prophesy. And along the way, it brings up memories of someone he can't forget...
1. The Prophesy

On a Cold, Wet Night  
  
Chapter One: The Prophesy  
  
Disclaimer: This all belongs to J.K. Rowling.  
  
Dumbledore sighed and put down his glasses, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. The clock on the mantelpiece of his office read three in the morning. He blinked twice and then resumed his work.  
  
He was reading a letter from an applicant. Only a week ago he had put an ad in the "Daily Prophet" for a new Divination teacher. A week ago...and two weeks since Professor Caradoc Dearborn disappeared.  
  
"A dear friend," thought Dumbledore. "And not a bad Divination teacher—someone who knew the limits of his own abilities and the subject he taught."  
  
But now it was time to face the fact that Caradoc wasn't coming back. It was war; when a member of the Order of the Phoenix went missing it wasn't just a coincidence.  
  
On Dumbledore's desk was a small stack of replies, most of which he knew would be from frauds. Not that he blamed them for wanting to work at the safest place in the wizarding world at this time.  
  
There came a sharp rap at the door and without even waiting for a response in swept Minerva McGonagall. Dumbledore hid a smile at the sight of her in a mauve nightgown.  
  
"Good morning," he said to her as cheerily as he could. "Cup of tea? There isn't a problem, is there?"  
  
He pointed to the goblet smoking on his desk. She didn't even look at it.  
  
"No, no, not a problem like that anyway," she said hastily. "Besides, you would have been warned earlier. No, you're the only problem."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Don't act innocent, Albus. You need to go to bed. I need my sleep, and all I can do now is lie there thinking about how you're awake, tiring yourself out. For heaven's sake, it's June! All the students are gone!"  
  
"Minerva, I'm so glad you feel like you can yell at me now. It's so much nicer than when we started out at the beginning of this decade. Remember?"  
  
McGonagall flushed. In 1970, the new Transfiguration professor often got tongue-tied around the famous new Headmaster.  
  
"Nevertheless, there can't be anything so important that you can't get a few hours sleep. What is it you're doing right now, anyway?"  
  
"Trying to see if we'll have a new Divination professor next year."  
  
"Divination!" McGonagall scoffed. "What a rubbish subject. Honestly, I can't think of anyone teaching it except..."  
  
She trailed off.  
  
"No," Dumbledore said. 'Nor can I. In fact, I don't think we should continue offering it here. True Seers, as you know, are very rare. I've had serious doubts about Divination from the beginning."  
  
"And the students are going to need to know all the Defense they can. There's not enough time for subjects as iffy as—"  
  
She fell silent at the look on Dumbledore's face. He had just picked up a letter, his eyes widening at the sloppy writing on the front of it.  
  
"What is it?" asked McGonagall.  
  
As long as she had known him, Dumbledore never looked shocked. But tonight came pretty close. He showed her the letter wordlessly and she squinted to read it.  
  
"Sibyll Trelawney? Do you think she could be related to Cassandra Trelawney?"  
  
"I hope so...I believe it is. Trelawney isn't a common name."  
  
Dumbledore was lost in his thoughts for a moment. So this is one of Cassandra's descendants. Cassandra...  
  
McGonagall surveyed the letter thoughtfully. "Cassandra Trelawney was a gifted Seer. She was quite famous in her day, I've heard. Do you think this Sibyll could have the—the talent as well?"  
  
Dumbledore came to. "If she's anything like Cassandra, I'd say yes."  
  
"Did you er—know Cassandra Trelawney personally?"  
  
Dumbledore cleared his throat and finished reading the letter. "We—we grew up together in Hogsmeade. Sibyll wants to meet me next Friday evening at the Hogs Head Inn, where she's staying. Doesn't it seem odd that she chooses that inn over even the Three Broomsticks?"  
  
McGonagall raised her eyebrows doubtfully. "Because your brother owns it, you mean? It's more likely she chose it because it's cheap—no wonder why, what with the clientele that goes there."  
  
Dumbledore nodded, not really listening. "Well, that settles it. I should drop in and see Aberforth this Friday—and run into someone else as well."  
  
"What's the real reason you're seeing her?" asked McGonagall shrewdly. "Common politeness? Curiosity? Familial confusion?"  
  
"Yes," Dumbledore answered. "Good night, Minerva. I'm going to bed."  
  
Friday night turned out to be rainy and unusually cold for June. If he put stock in omens, Dumbledore would have said the weather was one for sure. He sloshed his way through Hogsmeade, ignoring the dismal and bleak atmosphere around him. No one was out, of course. It was much too dangerous at night.  
  
He entered the dingy pub, shaking himself off. As he expected, there were only a few shady-looking people inside, sipping mugs of ale by themselves.  
  
He went up to the filthy bar and called, "One butterbeer, please. I have my own cup."  
  
The gray-haired, unkempt barman came into view. When he saw Dumbledore, his wan face broke into a grin.  
  
"Albus! If it isn't my little brother." He winked at the cup. "Still distrusting of my establishment, eh? You've got good reason."  
  
Dumbledore laughed. "I've been here before, you know."  
  
Aberforth passed him a butterbeer. "I have a question for you. What's a respectable person like you doing in a bar like mine on a night like this? It can't be a social call."  
  
"You could call it that. Or you could call it a business meeting. I'm seeing a prospective teacher here."  
  
Aberforth guffawed. "Why in the wizarding world would a person pick this place for a job interview? Do they want the job or not?"  
  
Dumbledore lowered his voice and leaned into the table. "It's for Divination. It's one of Cassandra's descendants."  
  
Aberforth was shocked silent for one whole minute. Then he got a dreamy look in his eyes.  
  
"Cassandra...well, I'm not surprised someone down the line wouldn't try to encroach on her fame. Albus, she sounds like a fraud to me. If she was a real Seer, why would she pick a night like this to meet you?"  
  
As he gestured towards the window, it blazed with lightening, as if to prove the point.  
  
"I didn't think of that," Dumbledore said. "But either way I have to meet her. Can you keep a sharp eye on things here? Not that I don't trust your clientele, but..."  
  
Aberforth chuckled again. "Don't worry about a thing. Go to your 'business meeting'. Oh, and tell me if she's anything like Cassie."  
  
Dumbledore nodded and headed up the stairs. Why was he feeling so nervous? He didn't even know the woman. He had no obligation to her. None. If she really was a fraud, he wouldn't hire her. Cassandra wouldn't have cared. Simple as that.  
  
He reached the door of her room and knocked twice.  
  
"Come in," he heard a misty, ethereal voice say.  
  
He entered to find the small room decorated with brightly colored sheets draped from the ceiling and a strong smell of putrid perfume filled his nose. But if that was strange, the woman sitting on a pouf was even stranger.  
  
She looked like—as Dumbledore was ashamed to think—a badly drawn caricature of Cassandra. She was like a gigantic moth with perturbing eyes of brown, the same color as those of her famous ancestor. Only hers were hidden behind enormous glasses. He could see how Aberforth wouldn't notice the relation. And they acted nothing alike.  
  
"I am Sibyll Trelawney," the woman continued. "Please, sit down Professor Dumbledore."  
  
"Thank you," he said, trying to be polite.  
  
"I am the first since my great-great-grandmother to be possessed of the second Sight," she pronounced. "But since before I could remember, I have Seen just as she did."  
  
Since he felt it would be rude to say, "That is what I'm here to determine", Dumbledore gave an encouraging nod.  
  
"If you don't mind me asking, just how many prophecies have you made, Miss. Trelawney?"  
  
She hesitated for a moment, then stuttered, "Well, I make prophecies very day, now don't I?"  
  
"No, you misunderstand me. Have you had any prophecies end up in the Department of Mysteries?"  
  
Trelawney looked at him as though he were mad. "I don't know what you mean to be talking about, so I must say no."  
  
"Oh. Then could you perhaps make a prophesy for me now?"  
  
She hesitated, then speaking very slowly as to one unenlightened, said, "The Inner Eye is...fragile. It can't be brought up at my command, or at yours."  
  
Dumbledore frowned. Perhaps she noticed the suspicious look on his face, for she began talking faster.  
  
"However, I do have tea leaves here. See, look at this unlikely cup. A most unlikely cup, for this cup shows the dreaded death omen, the Grim!"  
  
She held a burgundy cup up to him. To Dumbledore, they looked simply like tea leaves. So—Aberforth was right. Sibyll Trelawney was nothing but an actress of cheap tricks. Perhaps she truly believed she was a Seer; he didn't know. But crystal balls, palm reading—those sort of things weren't what Cassandra did.  
  
He bit his tongue to keep from accusing her of bringing shame to Cassandra. Instead, he tried to let her down gently.  
  
"Thank you for your time, Miss. Trelawney. However, I'm afraid to say I do not believe you will be suitable for this post. Excuse me, I must go."  
  
Her eyes bugged out more and her mouth dropped furiously. Dumbledore stood up and turned to leave when a harsh voice behind him made him stop.  
  
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the  
Dark Lord knows not... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the  
other survives...  
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the  
seventh month dies..."  
  
A/N: Please review! Thanks! 


	2. A Plan

Chapter Two: A Plan

Disclaimer: This all belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

Dumbledore felt his mouth drop in shock. He was so out of sorts that he did not even hear the obvious commotion going on right outside the room. But as soon as the prophesy was made, Trelawney seemed to come out of her reverie.

"Wha—?" she muttered stupidly, "What—what happened? Did I dose off? In the middle of my interview? Oh no!"

And she shot him such a terrified, pleading look that Dumbledore could only do one thing.

"There's far too much perfume in here, I believe," he said quietly. "We ought to get you out of here and into Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore detected a smidgen of hope in her voice.

"Yes, Hogwarts. You have the Divination job, _Professor _Trelawney."

She wrung her hands pathetically. "Thank you so much, Headmaster. You won't regret it, I promise you. I will someday make a prediction for you...I promise."

He patted her absentmindedly on the shoulder, said goodbye, and then hurried away down the stairs. He was still off balance. What to do, there was so much to do!

He was almost to the door when a large hand grasped his shoulder.

"Albus, wait," whispered Aberforth. "There's something I have to tell you."

"I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry. Can it wait?"

"I'm afraid not." His eyes told Dumbledore it was the truth. He nodded and followed his brother to back room. Aberforth looked around as if to check if anyone was watching or listening.

Then he burst out, "Someone was listening. A man came in the bar with his hood up. I'm sure he had followed you. He didn't ask for a drink, as I expected he would, but raced up the stairs. I...didn't know what to think. He could've been a Death Eater. I chased after him, and pulled him away. I had some of the regulars help throw him out, but I think he heard. It wasn't a prophesy, was it?"

During this time, Dumbledore's face had gone white. "He didn't hear the whole prophesy, did he? Did he?"

"I don't think so. He better not have."

Aberforth never looked more mutinous. Dumbledore knew there was no time to waste.

"Listen. You must act as if nothing is wrong here. If that was a Death Eater..." He trailed off. "I have to go."

"Be on your guard. Don't worry about things here. I'll tell the Order, and we'll schedule an emergency meeting tonight."

"No, not today—tomorrow. Today, there are some people I ought to tell first."

With a quick nod, Dumbledore raced out into the night, and back to Hogwarts, his mind racing as well. He'd heard a prophesy only once before—when he was far, far younger than he was now. When he was seventeen. And the most ironic part of it was who had given it to him.

She had stood, dressed in that ridiculous Muggle hoopskirt and bonnet, eyes glazing and speaking in the same voice her descendant just did. Telling him that he'd be a great wizard someday, that he'd one day be the hope of the whole wizarding world at war. Was this the time?

"It's not the time," he told himself sternly, "To be thinking of Cassandra Trelawney."

Back in his office at Hogwarts, he found McGonagall already waiting for him.

"Well?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "Do we have a new Divination professor?"

"Yes," he said, searching through his things.

"Yes?" McGonagall repeated, sounding thoroughly shocked. "Do you mean to say she wasn't a fraud after all?"

"No, she was a fraud. But—" He threw up his hands. "It'll be easier to explain with this."

He was holding a pensieve. He got out a quill and parchment and sat down. In a cloud of smoky mist, the bug-like image of Trelawney appeared. As she spoke the prophesy, Dumbledore took notes, determined not to miss a single segment of it.

McGonagall was speechless by the end of it.

"Which goes to show how much it affected her," thought Dumbledore. Minerva McGonagall was not often speechless.

Dumbledore looked over his notes once more, praying he was wrong. But everything fit. He had an awful feeling he knew who the prophesy could be referring to.

McGonagall read his thoughts correctly. "Don't jump to conclusions, Albus. There could be fifty boys scheduled to be born at the end of June—no, sorry, the seventh month is July."

He pointed to the top note on his parchment—_parents defied Voldemort three times._ Her face fell.

"Do you know of any couple who has done this and lived?" he asked. "Who are going to have a baby a month from now?"

McGonagall steeled herself. "Alice...and Lily...you must go tell them tomorrow."

"It must be tonight; someone overheard us in the Hogs Head."

Her reaction was properly horrified, but, like Aberforth, she did her best to reassure him.

"I'll take care of things here." She scribbled an owl. "Where are you going to go?"

"The Longbottoms, and I can send an owl to the Potters from there."

Dazed, as if in a dream, he grabbed the tail end of Fawkes and disappeared.

Frank Longbottom sat by the fire, poring over some more Auror documents. Alice had gone to bed early, as he had insisted that she rest. He gave a yawn, ran a hand through his light brown hair, and couldn't help but think he should be in bed himself. The clock read almost midnight. He heard an owl tap on the glass and went to let it in. He looked at the letter it carried, which was blank except for the initials "A.D."

He turned around groggily and found the man himself standing right behind him.

"Dumbledore! What are you doing here?"

The head of the Order looked worn, Frank noticed. He gestured Dumbledore to sit, but the great wizard shook his head.

"Not now, Frank. I must send an owl to the Potters. Could you open the fireplace to the Floo Network?"

Frank did so, confused.

Dumbledore sent the owl off and regarded him seriously. "Where's Alice? This concerns her as well."

"She's asleep. I mean, she's pregnant, Dumbledore. She needs rest."

"I'm fine, Frank. What is it, Professor?"

Alice Longbottom appeared on the stairs in a nightgown, leaning on the rail for support. Alice had always been on the plump side, but it was obvious she would have a baby in a month or less. Her round, sweet face, set off by curly blonde hair, looked worried.

"Alice!" exclaimed her husband, leaping up to help her down the stairs. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Well, I'm awake now," she said, much like her normal cheery self. "And I'd like to know what's going on."

"Ask him," said Frank, throwing Dumbledore a look. "Lily and James are coming too."

"We'll just have a lovely party, then, won't we?" Alice came over to Dumbledore and grasped his hand. "Is something wrong, Professor?"

He gave a deep sigh. "That all depends on how you look at it, Alice. You'll find out soon enough anyway."

Frank didn't have time to be any more confused. A second later, James and Lily Potter stepped out of the fireplace, both in nightclothes. Frank knew at a glance that they were as confused as he was.

A/N: Please review! Thanks!


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